


Evernight

by Noclue Idunno (NoclueIdunno)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Hermione Granger, Auror Ron Weasley, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Caring Harry Potter, Down and Out Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Episodic Scenes, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Magical Artifacts, Mental Health Issues, Not Britpicked, Not Epilogue Compliant, Protective Harry Potter, Slice of Life, Top Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:42:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23680273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoclueIdunno/pseuds/Noclue%20Idunno
Summary: Draco's life is too heavy and he reels from the weight.Harry's life is too empty and he wants to fill it.Draco's baggage seems to be just the thing Harry needs.ORDraco summons an eternal night on the Wizarding World. How will Harry bring the sun back?YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO POST THIS ON WATTPAD OR ANYWHERE ELSE. I NEVER WRITE ON WATTPAD. DEAR READERS, IF YOU SEE THIS STORY ELSEWHERE, PLEASE, REPORT IT, BECAUSE I WRITE ON AO3 AND AO3 ONLY.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Theodore Nott, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 4
Kudos: 60





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling and isn't mine. No copyright infringement intended. I gain nothing from this. This is a fanfiction offered freely to HP fans.

The sharp point of the fine needle ends in a hole a bit wider than Draco's hair. A drop of precious, precious last shot clings to the needle and Draco holds the syringe over his open mouth lest the droplet falls wasted to the floor. When it hits his tongue, the taste is bitter, nothing like the sweet rushof high that makes his fingers and toes curl in delight.

With practiced movement Draco winds the sleeve of his discarded shirt around his arm, pulling it tight with his teeth. He clamps down hard until his saliva soaks the garment. The sour and sandy taste of the his dirty shirt is foreign on his tongue. But everything will be okay. Everything will pass, he's got his medicine right here and dear Salazar, what a medicine it is, remedy to all his sorrows. Not even five vials of Potion of Euphoria could do the trick. Muggles certainly know their shit, he thinks, the white powder is less than half a teaspoon but it hits like nothing he's known before.

The problem is he needs more and more. The high feels lower with each dose. Shorter. Sometimes he skips the high altogether and starts hallucinating outright. In those moments he blames the quality of the powder. The godforsaken cooker must have watered it down three to one. In those moments Draco injects more and more, more to take away the hallucinations and more to bring him up, up...

It's getting difficult to find a tame vein. His skin is sallow and dry like an Azkaban inmate's demented shell. He seldom feels hungry. His junk fridge's full with soda too sweet and cheap for his refined palate, but still too expensive for his thin pockets. He seldom eats anything anymore. When the high calms and he crashes dehydrated, he drains the can with a thirst that could rival a man marooned in the middle of a desert. He has long since stopped caring about the fizzy sensation in his throat when he downs the sugared drinks.

He looks like he's chewed dark chocolate when he smiles. That is if he smiles at all. He must have.

Too much soda and too little toothpaste rotted his teeth. What would Mother and Father say when he sees them after the end? Perhaps nothing.

Nothing. Sometimes, he sees a trail of roaches creeping up the wall only to find there's nothing. Sometimes, someone tries to catch his attention from the corner of his vision but there's nothing in the end. At those times Draco just shrugs and tells himself it's only a side effect. He knows exactly what he's putting into his body. He knows exactly that in another year or two he'll look like that Muggle dosser a block across. He's fairly certain his mugshot will be used in a _Before and After_ pamphlet if he ever runs into a nosy bacon now that he's the worst of Muggle London.

But he can't stop now.

Rather, he can't stop because he knows exactly what the white powder will do to him in return for a night of high.

He can't stop because he knows he's killing himself slowly.

 _It's not the addiction that matters_ , the rehab counselor had told him before in her dusty office. He liked the woman because her office was dusty. He liked how she always wore that hideous threadbare light-pink sweater no matter how sizzling the day was. Once, she raised her arms to tie her hair back and Draco saw the wet patch of her armpits. He said nothing, but that made him like his counselor even more. _We are all addicted to something,_ she said, and Draco liked those words because she did not tell him he was unworthy or foolish. He stopped going to therapy. It's Muggle stuff anyway. The only good Muggle stuff is the feel-good crystal. He knows it's stupid. He knows the deal, the things people say to people like him, they'd say it's a terrible price to pay for a fleeting moment of pleasure, it's not worth it. He knows, he doesn't need to be told twice. He doesn't need to be told twice that he is slowly and very slowly killing himself. He doesn't need to be told again and again that there is something fucking wrong with him, he knows he is fucking wrong and his existence from the tip of his hair to the end of his toenails is a negative in this glittering night. He wonders if they know city lights are beautiful because it's dark all around. 

With each point taken he knows he's giving a part of himself away. It's peculiar, all the people he's ever partied with seemed to have no care in the world--their eyes saw beyond and they longed for what lies ahead and away from where they sat and stood and lay.

He knows it, he sees, smells, and hears it, he feels his heart fluttering. His heart started skipping a beat every now and then, like he's in love. Perhaps not. He read that somewhere, Draco's sure. Has he ever been in love? With anyone but himself?

He finds a working vein near the joint of his elbow and with a shaking hand, pushes the needle in. He takes several breathes deeply and pulls the plunger. A dash of blood oozes into the syringe.

He pushes the plunger back in slowly. A second later a sense of warmth pools in his chest and turns into a full-blown high that plucks several frantic coughs from his throat, and Draco can feel the sensation spreading to the extremes of his body. His heart is hammering too fast, too hard, and for a moment Draco thinks his control's failing, it's too much and he might really have overdosed himself this time. His mind is all foggy and panic seizes him as he gasps for breath. Will it end? End, how? End to lead him to a world of perversion or end to end it all?

It finally passes and Draco is both relieved and disappointed to find himself still breathing. Breathe. Live. It's strange, breathing's supposed to make you live and living should make you breathe but if you just breathe you're a good-for-nothing, so does that mean life is good for nothing?

But he's still _breathing_ and what is life if it's not the whole fling of pursuit and escape?

Draco chases himself off from his basement flat and escapes into the night city, blackened teeth chattering from the intensity of his laboured breaths.

==========


	2. Chapter 2

Draco bumps into a Muggle because he's not walking straight. The woman lets out a small yelp and rakes him top to bottom and up again with her drooping eyes. It's only a harmless Muggle lady, but Draco worries his lips all the same. The dried skin cracks stinging, and he tastes blood as the Muggle brushes past him. The encounter still does nothing to keep his eyes on the road. He won't; it's a road he knows all too well. It's far better to keep his eyes on the sky. That way, he doesn't have to look at eyes talking. People say a lot more through the eyes than their orifices, and the flood of their raw judgement feels like the swarm of a thousand Dementors to Draco. Up there, there are no Dementors and talk-too-much eyes. Draco can't see stars in this Muggle city where he lives. Muggles are better at lighting their streets than Wizards. Their _electricity_ , the word rolls on his tongue like a foreign vocabulary, it glares over the weak twinkle of stars above. There are spots where he can stargaze, but they're just too far and he's got to cut bus fares since he usually doesn't have enough for the Muggle drug.

He looks up until his neck bends too much and aches from the strain. It's his project, Draco has decided. One day he's going to pierce through the night fog and Muggle lights to find the constellations beyond. He was named after a constellation. He hated Astronomy, but the fact doesn't change that he's made of stars. If he could one day see through the fog, see crystal clear, see himself as the constellation, he could run away, fly up, just _be_ there and never come back.

Wind knifes over Draco's skin and his shirt brushes over nipples swollen because he's pinched them too much, spun and wanking. He's still high, he can tell, because the sensation shoots straight through his chest to his cock. If he doesn't get inside a room somewhere, he's going to cling onto the next man passing by and ask for sex. Then he'd be lucky if he's _just_ fucked. Last time he met a stranger, his arsehole started itching like mad into next week and his cock dripped pus. His prick felt like it was on fire when he took a piss. Draco was out of his dear mind to think of anything else than trying Theo.

Yes, Theo! Right. It wasn't a mistake to come out here on the street after all. Now he knows he can go to Theo's.

Another rush of pleasure hits Draco and he starts gasping. Theo. Yes, last time Theo took him to a Muggle Healer. They gave Draco a shot and told him to come back every week. The stream of pus then stopped. Yes. Theo always lets him spend the night and stay for breakfast. Theo always asks if he'd like to stay for the second breakfast. And the third. Theo doesn't tell him he's addicted. Theo doesn't insist on the stupid sausage casing Muggles wear to come inside a hole. Theo fucks him when he asks and stops when he tells him to. Theo smokes the glass pipe if Draco offers him one. Theo doesn't ask "what's that" when Draco slams him the syringe. Merlin, Theo's one good friend. It's a shame Draco hadn't realised that back in Hogwarts. He'd thought Theo was a loner only a little bit less loony than Loony Lovegood, always quiet and brooding on his own while the rest of the Slytherins were humping drunk on firewhisky from the kitchens. Speaking of Loony Lovegood, the girl had always looked like she's on crystal or speed or something better. They'd make great friends. Draco really should've been friends with Theo in school. But it's okay. It's okay because they're on even better terms now. Fuck buddies fixing fry-up and porridge for each other. Well, it's mostly Theo who does. It's fine, isn't it, Draco pays him alright. With his company. Theo's always appreciated Draco's company. He doesn't smile much, but his cheeks twitch when Draco tells him silly jokes about those Gryffindorks in high places over there on the Wizarding side. _We're all exiles,_ Theo said. Draco told him truer words have never been said.

Quick, quick. Before the high sets and he starts feeling not alright. Draco reaches for the pockets of his denim. He finds a Galleon. "This doesn't work!" he shouts at nobody in particular. The sparse Muggles become even sparser around him. Draco laughs heartily. To think the day would come when gold is useless.

"Hey, you, yeah, you!" Draco shouts at a burly man smoking a cigarette. He's figured out that it's the worst looking sort that usually has no qualms doing him small favours.

Up close, the man looks intimidating enough with the cracked skull tattoo on his revoltingly hairy arm. _Skull,_ Draco thinks. He looks at Draco and sucks on the cigarette without a word. The tip lights up red. "Here, look," Draco says, flipping the galleon on the back of his hands. "This is a gold coin. Almost pure gold. It's yours." He knows he's not supposed to give Wizarding money to Muggles. There are laws and long-term jinxes. But who cares about the law? He's beyond it anyway. And it's not like he can't take one or two jinxes.

Skull takes the coin vacantly, scratching his greasy head. He examines the coin and returns it to Draco.

"You don't want it?" asks Draco.

"I'm not a beggar," Skull answers. "Take a walk before I smash your face in."

"Wow, I just want a phone call," replies Draco, "I'll give you the coin."

Skull doesn't withdraw his hand, so Draco takes the coin back. He almost blurts out, _you wanna fuck?_ when their hands touch. Better not, Draco thinks around his wavering consciousness. Some men have broken his nose before simply because he prefers men.

"Wait," Skull whips out his mobile phone when Draco is about to leave. "Keep your coin."

Draco rings Theo. "Hello," Theo's Mugglified voice says from the other side. Draco has no idea how Theo has settled so well here. It's been a couple of years since Draco left the Wizarding World but he doesn't even have a mobile phone.

"Is it working? Naughty Knotty Nott," Draco giggles, "Come pick me up. I'm lonely. And other things."

Theo is yelling. "Draco? Draco, whose phone is this?"

"A very nice gentleman's."

"Where the hell are you?"

Draco pulls the phone from his cheek and asks Skull, "Where am I?"

Skull sighs and wrestles the phone away. Draco can still hear Theo speaking when Skull cuts the call. "Oi!" Draco shouts, "I'm not done!"

"I gotta go," Skull says. "Here, I'll send this location to that number."

The powders tend to blow his emotions out of proportion but it's gratitude that's blowing now. "You know what, Muggle," Draco says, shedding fat tears of thanks, "I might just fall in love with you."

"What did you call me? Nevermind. And sorry, but no homo." Skull flicks his cigarette on the road and walks away. He looks back one last time. "You ought to stop taking whatever it is you're on. It's an ugly end."

Draco doesn't give him the finger because he's nice.

Because he has nothing better to do, Draco just stands there, watching the sky. He pops his neck, stretching a little when it gets too stiff. And... _voila,_ he finds Theo's lanky form appearing just around the corner.

"That's my Naughty Nott. Always so fast."

"Hi, Draco. That's what magic is for."

"I can't do magic at the moment," replies Draco. His teeth clacks from holding back. But Theo's here. He doesn't have to hold back anymore. "Now fuck me rough and good. I want an animal tonight."

"Don't know if I can manage that but I'll try. Come here, I'll Side-Along you." Theo opens his arms, and Draco just falls into them. They don't love each other but they have an unspoken agreement. Theo never says no. Nott is a yesman. Even about Draco's slow, feathery, early grave. Even about Draco being a good-for-nothing ex-Death-Eating surplus exile.

==========

Draco feels Theo curling a finger inside him, prodding against the flesh. He knows that's Theo's way of asking whether he's clean down there. One time, it got really messy because Draco forgot he hadn't emptied himself. Theo just Vanished and Scourgified everything, blanket and all. Draco told him he'll just go kill himself because he's a pile of shit, blubbering like Potter during the memorials after the War. Potter? Now where did that come from. It's a mental image he doesn't need. Go away, Potter.

Theo's started annoying him, so Draco gets mad. "Just shove your cock in already, I'm clean, alright."

"You did it the Muggle way? With the showerhead?"

Draco kicks him. "Are we doing this or not."

Theo slaps his arse. "Shut up, Malfoy."

Shut up, Malfoy. That's Pottlish. Only Potty and his ilk had used those words on him, he thinks, his mind travels back and far back--Hippogriffs, owls, Parseltongue, 100 and 150 points. Dumbledore, the greatest wizard alive, favouring Potter above everyone else. Fake Moody and Potter laughing at him being a ferret. Potter and Triwizard Cup. Draco had told Potty the Dark Lord's coming for him because the trophy in Potter's hands had looked so shiny to his jealous eyes. Potter the hero. Later he learnt Potter had watched him on the Astronomy Tower. Potter testifying for them...

His thoughts come to an abrupt stop because he feels cold lubrication charm coating his insides.

His vision clouds with pleasure. Theo must have entered him. Is it Theo? It's Theo, right?

"Salazar. It's bleeding a bit," Theo says. "I'm pulling out."

"Not now. Later, an Episkey or something maybe. Keep going. Rough."

Every thrust makes Draco blink madly. He feels it, the warmth pooling in his belly, creeping up to his chest and coursing through his head. His heartbeat starts quickening, and his skin is on fire. Surely he's not the one making all these high-pitched whimpers. He brings his fingers to his nipples and flicks them, rolling and twisting the beads between his fingers. He focuses on the sensation, he's floating, and Potter's cock feels so right inside him. His mouth is drying, so Draco hacks and coughs. He thinks he's a bit dizzy.

"Draco," Potter says, "Draco, you okay? Let's get some break, yeah? You've got to hydrate. Draco, Draco? Let's get you washed. You're sweating a lot."

Gradually, Potter stops being Potter and it's Theo. Theo hoists Draco up on his lap. Draco drinks a mouthful of water but it's difficult to swallow.

"A bit more," Theo pushes the glass against his lips. Draco sips just to humour him.

All he can think of when Theo takes him to the bathroom is how much he'd love to be pounded right there in the tub. But as if he's read his thoughts, Theo gathers Draco's wandering hands. "We're going to fuck in the bedroom, so just relax here."

"Thanks," Draco smiles tiredly.

They are sitting in the bath together, Theo embracing him from the back. He's massaging him gently everywhere. "You were in your own world there," Theo breathes on Draco's ear, "Who was it with you this time, Wood? Krum?"

Draco turns. He kisses Theo's chin and leaves a playful bite there. "Actually, it was Potter."

Theo's amused laughter echoes in the bathroom. "No way," he says. "Uh, Draco, that's sick. Saint Potter isn't what you'd call hot."

"Well, I'm binging now, so don't blame me."

Theo just keeps on snickering until Draco pinches the shaft of his limp cock.

Theo lays him on the mattress after soaking in the bath. "You ready?"

Draco's eyes are closed as Theo's cock prods and parts the rim of his hole. It's the first time for Draco to actually imagine Potter like that, but it isn't bad at all. It's even better than when he pretended it was Oliver Wood or Viktor Krum with him. He might even get addicted to it, he thinks. It's fine, it should be fine, it's all in his head, anyway. Just a good fuck.


	3. Chapter 3

"You sure you're not staying?" Theo's leaning against the doorframe, nursing the cup of tea Draco has refused. Not because Draco was picky. He just didn't want to take anything more from Theo. 

Draco's chest throbs when Theo asks him to stay. Truth be told, Draco wants to. He's stiff everywhere and still sleepy. Standing like this is enough to exert him; if he were on his own, he would already have sat where he stands. He should take Theo's offer, take a nap in Theo's comfy bed, and ask for sex for no other reason than to fill the time, because sooner or later he'll dry and shrivel like the pastel paint peeling on Theo's green door. The flake flutters. Green. Slytherin green. Potter green. Green, peeling like the last vestiges of summer playing hide-and-seek with the first of the year's autumn breeze.

"Thanks but no. Merlin's sake, I've intruded enough. You got things to do."

He likes to watch Theo. Pureblood grace hasn't left him as it left Draco. Theo's neck remains straight when he brings the teacup to his lips, unlike Draco who doesn't care anymore if it's his nose that sips the tea. One of the ironic truths Draco has realised since he came to the Muggle World is that manners can be unlearnt and people change. There is no such thing as _forever_. He has it written inside his head because he, once upon a time, had taken forever as granted. Forever Malfoy. Family Forever. Forever at the top of the food chain, forever and ever, until his tapestry someday branches down and down to little golden flowery vines reading _Draco III_ and _Draco IV_. He doesn't understand why it had seemed so important at the time. They're all as fleeting as the green flake on Theo's door.

It's a thing for Theo to stand and watch until Draco's gone. Draco knows this because it's a thing for him to look back twice or perhaps more as he leaves Theo's door, to turn back and watch one last time until Theo is an invisible speck if he's walking straight. Or if he turns around the corner then Theo disappears. Draco usually stops when Theo's out of sight and presses a hand to his heart, heart pumping blood too much and too desperately from all the Muggle powder Draco's stuffed inside his veins.

 _They're all exiles_ but Theo seems ready to return to the other side any day, be the mysterious alchemist skulking in the Nott family mansion. He remembers Theo saying, _gimme a wand and a scrap of iron and I'll keep myself entertained a whole decade._ Draco has no doubt on that. Theo has a list of things he wants to make someday. Things of magic, things of wishes coming true that'll make good stories on a Chocolate Frog card. Theo showed it once to Draco. It's his dream, Theo said, to invent magical artefacts so unique that the higher-ups at the Ministry and the lower-downs at the Department of Mysteries would have to redefine the very concept of magic. Theo always has been the oddball of Slytherin, so Draco hasn't taken him very seriously. No one can invent a True Time-Turner with indefinite time-travel range. That's one of the crazy things Theo has on his list. It should be impossible. Impossible like a bracelet that unleashes a curtain of everlasting night for its master. Another magical invention on Theo's list. _Evernight,_ Draco remembers. He joked about it before.

_Aren't you the nerdy bastard, Naughty Nott._

_Yeah?_

_Ah, Theo my dearest, never have I ever imagined you were that nerdy._

_Thanks for the compliment, Draco. Charming as always, I see._

_You're welcome. You actually gave your inventions corny names._

_Which one?_

_Evernight._ _The kind of name that makes Gryffindorks rage in prejudice and our_ _Daddy Dears hot and bothered. Sounds positively like something that Dear Aunt Bella and the Dark Lord would talk about after sex--Don't frown--you're allowed to forget I ever said that._

_Well, you said you could watch stars on and on in the night._

_Oh? Was that for me?_

_Could be._

_Theodore?_

_Theo...dore? I get goosebumps when you call me like that._

_My apologies. You aren't a nerdy bastard. You're a sappy bastard._

_Yeah. Perhaps._

Draco loves his friend for small quirks like that. Quirks like responding with affirmatives to whatever Draco says. Or being a Wizarding nerd who comes up with romantic inventions. It's too bright outside now, Draco wouldn't have minded a nice Evernight bracelet. People tend to notice others less outside during the night. Draco tends to notice stars more outside during the night. It's a win-win game.

Draco squints at the sun. "Well, I'll be going then. Your Evernight sounds especially tempting today. Maybe I'll get to see it one day."

One of Theo's slender fingers taps the teacup. "You remember?"

"I do. What's not to like about magic and jewellery."

Theo ushers Draco back in. He seats him on a horrendous plastic stool Draco is itching to Vanish because he doesn't like the garish blue. Pity Draco didn't bother bringing his wand with him. But it's some relief. He sighs contentedly as he sits, stretching his sore legs.

"Wait here, give me a minute," Theo heads inside. Draco hears him rummaging through stuff.

"Next time I come, Transfigure the bloody chair," Draco shouts at him. "Dark green."

Draco is counting the yellowing spots of something on the wallpaper when Theo returns with a Muggle plastic container in his hand. They're called Tipperwares, Draco knows, thank you very much. Sometimes Theo packs sandwiches in them for Draco. Only, there's no food in there right now.

"Sorry it's a Tupperware." Oh. So it's not 'Tipper'. Theo removes the thing inside. Out comes a bracelet of silver, adorned with a small black pearl. Theo Transfigures the Tupperware into a cushioned black velvet box and carefully puts the bracelet back inside it.

Theo kneels before Draco, clearing his throat. "Allow me the honour, mademoiselle."

Draco kicks him playfully. "That's Mr Malfoy to you. Is that what I think it is?"

Instead of answering, Theo slips the bracelet on Draco's wrist. "Would you look at that, fits like it's made for you, Draco."

On closer look, the black pearl is set between the jaws of a serpent. For a split second, Draco could have sworn the serpent's silver eyes blinked at him. "It blinked, Theo! You never told me you're this good with Charms."

"There's no charm with that effect applied there. You must be seeing things."

"Seeing things?" White-hot rage courses through Draco. "Are you calling me an addict?"

"What?"

"You just called me a fucking addict! Fuck you, Nott! I knew it! Worthless blood-traitor, I should have noticed, I should have _known_ you'd betray all of us when you didn't take the Mark! What would your father have said? One of Dark Lord's staunchest supporters, betrayed by his only son!"

"No, that isn't--"

Draco claws at the bracelet. He will take it off and throw it to Theo's smug face. Theo's called him an addict. He has no one now. Theo's betrayed him. Now he's got no choice but to die alone. Yes. He'll buy more Muggle crystal and inject the whole pack inside him and just die, frothing at his mouth, and let's see how Theo thinks about that. He'll write a will that it's Theo who killed him. He tells Theo just that, shouting until he feels the tear in his throat searing painfully from all the screams. He hears himself yelling horrible, horrible words at Theo, who has been nothing but kind. Yes. Draco should go home and _Incendio_ the entire building along with his godforsaken addict body so there is no trace of himself left behind polluting this world. Or he should just try Apparating while high so he'd Splinch half of himself and die bleeding and crawling right in the middle of Diagon Alley and scare the shit out of people's kids. He tells Theo all of it.

In the end, Draco is reduced to wiping tears and green snot on Theo's bare shoulder. "I didn't want to say all that to you. I don't deserve you. You deserve so much better. I'll just go, I'm a failure as a friend."

Theo wipes the green, sticky snot drying on his shoulder. Draco is so ashamed he wants to die right there on the spot. "Your nose is dry," says Theo. His tone is slow and clear, like someone who is trying very hard not to offend. "Have some water and please, Draco, stay. You can go home tomorrow. You're tweaked and I'll feel very sad if you leave in that state. You don't want to make me sad, right?"

The water tastes sweet on Draco's parched tongue.

No sooner had Theo lain him back on the bed than Draco fell asleep, snoring, drooling, mumbling, crying; regret pooling in his eyes.

==========

Sun's setting. It tints the room orange. The serpent bracelet gleams. It should be night soon.

He should head out and wait for the blood-red sun to sink slumbering.

He's got an appointment to keep with his constellations.

Theo isn't sleeping when Draco opens his eyes wider.

Theo is peering into his eyes, in bed next to him.

Draco sees acceptance. Pity. He _hates_ pity, but it's right there.

He'd take pity. If it's Theo's. 

_Draco? Do me a favour?_

_After that show in the morning, anything you want._

_Don't say that. You weren't yourself then._

_The worst of me is me too, Theo. I'm sorry I was at my worst._

_Draco?_

_Hmm?_

_You trust me, yeah?_

_I'd be an ingrate if I trusted you with anything less than my life._

_Repeat after me._

_Okay._

_Evernight--_

_Evernight--_

_Shroud me._

_Shroud me._

==========


	4. Chapter 4

For fuck's sake, another message inbox. His wand is beeping in that distinct tune, filling his bedroom with tenacious promises of yet another day. Head buried under the pillow, Harry fumbles for his wand in the dark. Today's his day off, why is the AMS (Auror Messaging Service) ringing? He must have forgotten to turn it off; last night he arrived home drunk like a fish over some six or seven rounds of Firewhisky with Ron after apprehending Rabastan Lestrange. He and Ron had been tracking Rabastan down between catnaps and hardtacks along the mountain ranges of the Scottish Highlands. Harry vows he will _never_ eat another hardtack in his life. Even the Head Auror himself admitted they've earned their rest after making it through Rabastan's Unforgivables and unidentified Dark spells. Harry is on _official_ leave. He has to sleep to _function._ He will not check that message.

He needed that Firewhisky to dull his nerves, fill this empty hole inside him which isn't supposed to hurt so much because bloody hell, there's nothing left. But emptiness hurts, Harry would tell anyone who'd ask him, it's like this puncture in his body drilled by God knows what.

Thrill? Facing Dark magic that causes all manners of grisly death has its merits, but Harry isn't a daredevil. At times he welcomes the rush of adrenaline from an Entrail-Expelling Curse singeing his hair as he evades it. But he's not fucking suicidal. They all think he's this perfect Dumbledore's Replacement and Voldemort's Vanquisher, that waste of space Daily Prophet wouldn't leave him alone with its overused front-page headline OUR FEARLESS HERO SAVES THE DAY. False, wrong, untrue, negative, a hundred _no_ , he's really not interested in saving anyone's day because he's got to clench his goddamn arsehole all the time, all the fucking time he has to erect countless Protegos and cast infinite Expelliarmuses to keep the nonsense _Subdue, Don't Kill_ policy the Ministry's implemented for this rubbish "new age of peace and prosperity, my fellow magical Beings". Yeah, Kingsley had announced that lie of the century at his first speech to the Wizengamot, yeah, it's a wonder Harry's entrails are still up and about dumping shit every morning, it's a miraculous wonder he hasn't got haemorrhoids destroying his arsehole from all the stress, he has his own skin to save on the field and he's already sacrificed enough, alright, so can bright blue skies and green grass fields and cotton candy kids wipe their own bums and please let Harry Potter sleep for another fucking fifteen minutes?

Apparently not. This Firewhisky hangover is very nearly and very effectively persuading Harry to Blast his throbbing head off, but he doesn't want to die so he declines.

"Shit," a particularly nasty jolt of pain in the head wrings a groan from Harry. He should've taken Hangover Potion before going to bed. Wobbling in sleep-depriving, brain-splitting headache, Harry follows the noise of the AMS to find his wand stuck under the sleeve of his shirt on the floor. Harry doesn't even bother checking the time nor the message and barks an angry _Finite_ at his wand. Useless piece of stick. Right now Harry just about hates everything and everyone. He _requires_ that Hangover Potion, or his lightning scar might actually shoot sparks and fry his head. He doesn't want to be found dead with hair like Mione's.

His groin cramps from all the piss it's been holding back all night. A hand pinching the back of his neck, Harry totters to the loo and aims his little—no, not little, no, Merlin's beard no, Harry has never thought of his little Harry as little. He can prove it: Witch Weekly had a _Girls' Good Guess_ column about _Potter's Bulge_ some issues ago _._ Right, with a red blushing heart printed right there at the end of the title for all the world to see. So, Harry aims his _not_ little prick to the toilet and sighs in relief. But it's too yellow and foamy, his piss. He makes a mental note to have plenty of water when he drinks with Ron.

Aim is of vital importance in all things. Job, duelling, marriage, clubbing, life in general basically, and Harry shouldn't have forgotten that, because the haze of hangover fails his aim and Harry ends up soiling himself.

"Fuck," Harry hisses, feeling the warm yellow liquid trickling down his thighs, soaking his lowered boxer briefs. It's fine. He's home and he was about to shower anyway. Get that steaming hot shower to pamper his aching body. But as tempting as the idea sounds, what Harry needs is a vial full of Hangover Potion. The shower comes after.

Harry rolls his wet briefs further down and flings it to the tub. It lands there with a _splat_. No big deal. He'll just Scourgify it later. He heads down the stairs starkers and with a wave of his hand, opens the potion cabinet. Harry hastily uncorks the vial and gulps down his light-pink saviour. The headache finally soothes when Harry empties the vial.

Feeling somewhat better, Harry yawns loudly, scratching his balls. He's not usually starkers at home, but it's kinda liberating once in a while.

_Crack._

Crack?

Harry's fingers are frozen on his balls, while his other arm is still stretched wide in the aftermath of his yawn. Such is the uncensored and unbridled portrait of his birthday suit that he offers to his besties, to whom he has never imagined he would be standing so close in such situation, by Merlin and Morgana and all that is Magic.

Ron looks like he's seconds away from exploding with mirth.

Hermione's gaze begins from poor Harry's outstretched arm and moves on to his ball-scratching fingers. She blinks twice, then coughs in a fashion that makes Harry feel like he's twelve again, paralysed at the receiving end of old Professor McGonagall's _Potter! This is unthinkable!_

Harry reassures himself that this is _his_ home. He should in no way feel embarrassed. And they haven't Owled. Or Flooed. Or knocked. They just freakin Apparated in! They can't abuse their Secret-Keepership like this!

"Jesus! What the hell!" Harry yells, throwing open the potion cabinet door to cover his shame. To Harry's dismay, the cabinet door is mostly glass. As a last resort, Harry croaks a desperate "Accio cushion" against the sofa and struggles to pretend he has some dignity left in him holding it over his big Harry.

Ron makes a sound like a boiling kettle before bursting into a mad peal of laughter. He laughs so hard that his ears flush like ripe tomatoes.

Hermione's pursed lips twitch, and even she breaks into a wide smile. "It's okay, Harry. I know it's a guy thing. Even Ron can't stop shoving his hand down his front at home. Every morning he grooms his pubic hair with sufficient frequency and amplitude."

Ron's laughter dies down to a shy awkward hiccup. Harry feels less embarrassed and manages a half-hearted grin.

"Sorry, Ronald," says Hermione, examining her fingers matter-of-factly. "But it's scientifically proven that association lessens shame. As Harry's best friend, you're called to his company in misery."

Ron points a finger at his wife. "You're his best friend too!" he splutters.

"There isn't a single speck of doubt in me that I'm married to a gentleman who'd protect his wife's privacy."

"But you always say women and men are equal..."

"Don't you finish that sentence, Ron, you can't bring that up as an excuse to..."

Harry uses the distraction to Apparate to his bedroom for two reasons. He so doesn't need to hear Ron and Mione's argument about gender trouble. He also doesn't want his friends to figure out that he smells a bit like urine.

==========

Ron and Hermione have stopped arguing by the time Harry returns downstairs after his shower. Harry sighs in bliss at the fragrance of strong coffee Mione pours him. Glancing at the window, he can see it's still dark between the curtains.

"So what are you guys doing here?" asks Harry. "And yeah, apology accepted."

Hermione sips her coffee sheepishly while Ron places a bottle of light-pink potion on the tea table. "Uh, sorry about that, mate. We were sent to fetch you, and we thought maybe you're out of Hangover Potion. I was hammered too, Hermione had to wake me up."

"Sent? By whom? You could've sent me a Patronus, it's a lot easier."

"Molly sent us," says Hermione. "She wants you to come over to the Burrow. She was going to come here too but Ron talked her out of it. Everyone's there already. If you haven't packed yet, we can help."

Harry spits his coffee back into the cup. "What? Pack? As in, move?"

Ron gives him a puzzled look. "What?"

"No, what are you people even talking about? I could use some explanation. Pack?"

"Harry," Hermione's eyes are round with surprise, "You don't know?"

"I mean what happened? I just woke up, Mione."

Hermione rises from her seat abruptly and draws the curtain. Outside, it's dark as night. No, it _is_ night.

"The entire Auror Office is to assemble at the Ministry, except those on missions and post-mission leave. As for the rest of us, we're given time for our families before we start operating on emergency rotation."

" _Tempus_ ," Ron flicks his wand. A glowing screen flickers mid-air: **11.50 AM**.

"It's still night out there," Harry says, "That can't be right. Look, there's the moon."

Ron shrugs, erasing the glowing screen with a non-verbal Finite. "When has the Tempus spell ever shown the wrong time? Check your AMS."

Harry cools his coffee wandlessly and drains it. "We're going to the Ministry now. I need to be there if Aurors are summoned. I'll be less confused there."

"Read the AMS, Harry," Hermione says with a tone that permits no back-talk. "Seriously, you should drop that habit of ignoring messages."

Harry draws a circle on the air and whispers, _Episto._ A ribbon of light emerges and arranges itself into a message in the circle of Harry's wand movement.

**[MoM. AUROR ALERT Lv. SEVERE]  
** **Magical Catastrophe confirmed  
** **Statute of Secrecy unbreached  
Dark Arts attack undetected  
** **Aurors report to HQ  
Mission & Leave excepted**

"So that," Harry points to the night sky, "Is a Magical Catastrophe?"

Setting her cup down, Hermione dabs her lips with a napkin she Conjures. "Yes. When the sun didn't rise this morning, the Wizarding World knew something was wrong."

"Statute of Secrecy unbreached... I assume Muggles are unaware."

"Yeah, you know what's weird?" Ron draws the curtains close. "It's only affecting us Magical folks. As far as Muggles are concerned, it's broad daylight now."

Harry stands. "Even though we practically live on the same side of the Earth, on the same damn planet. Right. I'm reporting."

"You're on leave," Hermione's voice takes a sharper tone, "You and Ron duelled a powerful Dark wizard in extreme environment, and were stupid enough--yes, Ron, you and Harry were morons this time, and making that face isn't going to change my mind--where was I? Stupid. Both of you were stupid enough to get wasted the same night. You haven't recovered enough. Don't be silly and do follow protocols if you want to be useful. This isn't Hogwarts adventure anymore."

Irritation sparks in Harry at Hermione's harsh words, but he bites back whatever retort he was about to say. "And what's this about Molly?"

Ron approaches Harry and pats his shoulder. "Well, Harry my friend," he winks, "It seems I'm at mortal peril."

"The Weasley Clock," nods Hermione, "All the hands of the clock have been pointing to Mortal Peril since this morning... if morning still makes sense. Molly and Arthur want everyone to stay under the same roof. You're family, Harry, that doesn't change although you're not on the clock."

==========


End file.
